The Story of Philosophy. by. Will Durant. Identifier TheStoryOfPhilosophyWillDurant. Identifier-arkark://t4qk2kb OcrABBYY FineReader. THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY 1 The Lives And Opinions (will Durant) Topics great book. Collectionopensource. LanguageEnglish. Book Source: Digital Library of India Item cepcosojurre.cf: Will cepcosojurre.cfioned.
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Free site book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg. Philosophy and the Social Problem by Will Durant. Book Cover. The story of philosophy by Will Durant; 1 edition; First published in ; Subjects: Accessible book, Protected DAISY, Philosophers. This page features a growing list of Free Philosophy eBooks, presenting essential For those interested in philosophy, you won't want to miss our collection of Free Online Philosophy Courses. . ePub Edition - Read Online Now Free Alice Munro Stories · Jennifer Egan Stories · George Saunders Stories · Hunter S.
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Try me now Install the bookmarklet in your browser and build an e-book from the sample text below, just clicking on the installed bookmarklet. Or, if you are not ready to install, try Converter. Chesterton The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild.
It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art.
But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them.
Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face—that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.
THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY 1 The Lives And Opinions (will Durant) 1926
That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed.
He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art.
A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy. More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud.
This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero.
It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place.
Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr.
Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really in some sense a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure.
He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt.
This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape. This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world.
All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen.
The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy.
The Story of Philosophy
The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small. I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park.
For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended.
The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair.
But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry.
He said that he Syme was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.
THE STORY OF PHILOSOPHY 1 The Lives And Opinions (will Durant) 1926
In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms.
I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden. Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour. An anarchist is an artist.
The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything.
He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen.
An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway. I will tell you.
It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it.
We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad.
But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! Hence he lives not, like the beasts of the field, in a world of merely physical things but in a world of signs and symbols. A stone is not merely hard, a thing into which one bumps; but it is a monument of a deceased ancestor. A flame is not merely something which warms or burns, but is a symbol of the enduring life of the household, of the abiding source of cheer, nourishment and shelter to which man returns from his casual wanderings.
Instead of being a quick fork of fire which may sting and hurt, it is the hearth at which one worships and for which one fights. And all this which marks the difference between bestiality and humanity, between culture and merely physical nature, is because man remembers, preserving and recording his experiences.
The revivals of memory are, however, rarely literal.
The Dangerous Lives of the Philosophers
We naturally remember what interests us and because it interests us. The past is recalled not because of itself but because of what it adds to the present. Thus the primary life of memory is emotional rather than intellectual and practical.
Savage man recalled yesterday's struggle with an animal not in order to study in a scientific way the qualities of the animal or for the sake of calculating how better to fight tomorrow, but to escape from the tedium of today by regaining the thrill of yesterday. The memory has all the excitement of the combat without its danger and anxiety.If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway. Download new books Books for all fans to read For hundreds of years, books have been one of the most popular entertainment and hobbies for humanity.
For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. Try me now Install the bookmarklet in your browser and build an e-book from the sample text below, just clicking on the installed bookmarklet.
The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. The poet delights in disorder only. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station?